


Shotgun Divorce

by Duckyboos



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Assault, Attempted Murder, Cactus Stealing, Grand theft auto, I don't wanna give the ending away in the tags, M/M, Murder, Serial Killer Dean Winchester, Serial Killers, Theft, even though most of you will probably see it coming a mile away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 16:43:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12303279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Dean's hitchhiking in the middle of Arizona when a beautiful stranger offers to give him a ride.





	Shotgun Divorce

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this in about two hours, while I was avoiding doing any actual work. Totally lifted from a short story called The Hitchhiker and chopped & changed bits to suit Cas and Dean/make the plot go where I want it.
> 
> For those waiting on the final chapter of SbS, it is coming. Most likely by the end of this week. Thank you for your enduring patience.

It’s hotter than Satan’s asshole out here.

Hotter than Satan’s asshole and drier than a nun’s cunt. What a combination.

Walking backwards along the roadside, Dean watches the oncoming car and offers his thumb. The temptation to offer a different finger as the car drives on by, kicking up more desert dust for his lungs to contend with is almost too strong. But in the end, he’s glad that the manners he was instilled with as a military brat win out, because as he turns to see how much further down the road he could be if he had a goddamn car, the navy sedan’s brake lights flash on.

At first, he figures that the driver is slowing down to be safe or something, but then the car stops completely and Dean isn’t quite sure what to do. He’s hitchhiked plenty and he’s no stranger to the ‘big tease’ (not the fun kind). Like where the car stops, you run to it, then off it shoots throwing sand in your face.

Dean is not gonna fall for it. 

The backup lights come on and Dean is torn between thanking his lucky stars and wondering if he’s gonna be on the news as the twelfth victim of the sedan slaughterer. He’s leaning more towards the former though, because honestly? No self-respecting serial killer would drive a Chevvy Malibu.

The car rolls back towards him and the dude inside leans across the passenger seat and opens the door.

He’s pretty. Like really pretty. Blue eyes; an oasis in the desert.

Jesus. He’s clearly been out here too long.

“Can I give you a ride?”

Dean licks his lips, cracked and dry like the parched ground beneath his feet. He wants to say something witty, something to impress this beautiful guy, but he’s at a loss, brain addled with miles walked in this stupid fucking desert. “Sure, that’d be great.” He throws his sea bag onto the rear seat and gets in, settles into the leatherette with a contented sigh. The air con is on the coldest setting and it freezes the sweat on his skin and Led Zep t-shirt. 

It feels really fucking good.

“Thanks man,” He says, turning to face his savior and getting a pretty profile of a sharp jaw with just enough scruff so as to appear artful rather than unkempt, plush pink lips, straight nose and a head full of dark tousled hair. 

Goddamn. In another life…

“Where are you headed?” The guy asks, starting again up the road. 

“However far you can take me.” Dean answers honestly, “But ideally, as close to the Californian border as I can get.”

The guy hums thoughtfully. “Okay.” 

Dean looks at the guy again. He’s wearing boots and jeans and a faded blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, but it’s obvious that the dude has class. It’s written all over him. The way he talks, the way his skin is tanned just so, all light lithe muscles in his forearms, like he _ runs _ . Without being chased. He’s probably an English professor at some Ivy League college.

“What’s your name?” Dean asks, because he can’t not know.

“Castiel.” The guy replies with a quick glance and smile in Dean’s direction. See? Even his name is classy as fuck. “And yours?”

“Dean.”

“Nice to meet you, Dean.”

“You too, Cas.” He winces internally at the over familiar nickname, but Castiel doesn’t seem to mind.

They drive in companionable silence for a few miles.

“So what’s a decent guy like you doing in a shit place like this?” Dean asks, bored of the same scenery that he’s been subjected to for far too long; a desolate wasteland of nothingness. “How come you’re not on the main highway?”

“Well…” Castiel laughs softly, almost nervously. “I’m out here to get rid of my husband’s remains.”

Oh. Dean’s first overtly-paranoid thought is that Castiel means a body, but of course he doesn’t; he most likely means the ashes. Probably on his way to the grand canyon or something. People do that, right? He’s definitely seen it in at least one movie.

“I’m sorry to hear that your husband died.” Dean ventures eventually, mostly for something to say.

Castiel makes a derisive noise. “I’m not. Bastard cheated on me. That’s why I’m out here. He hated the desert.”

Dean tries not to laugh. That’s petty as hell, and he can totally get on board with that. His initial glee at finding someone whose pettiness rivals his own is quickly eclipsed by sheer confusion, because who the fuck would cheat on a guy like Cas in the first place? Cas’ ex-husband clearly didn’t realize just how good he had it.

There’s another thought at the back of Dean’s mind, snagging on his consciousness, and it has a lot to do with the shovel on the rear seat, next to his bag.

“Why the shovel, then?”

“Ah.” Castiel says, pink tongue darting out to moisten his plump bottom lip. “Well, I want a memento of it, so I’m going to dig up a cactus, take it home with me. A reminder of my fuckstick ex-husband.”

Dean does laugh then. “You mean you’re out to lift some cactuses? You little rebel, you!”

Castiel’s brow creases in confusion as he glances from the road to Dean and back again. “What do you mean?”

Dean supposes that not everybody is privy to the intricacies of cactus law.  “It’s not legal, Cas. There’s a fine and everything.”

Castiel’s expression smoothes out again, relief and a little good humor. “Well, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

A thousand innuendos filter through Dean’s mind at the speed of an eel in a greased up wetsuit, but in an unusual show of restraint, he doesn’t voice any of them. Instead he says, “I’ll be glad to give you a hand.”

“I’ve only got the one shovel.”

“Eh. You can watch me work.” Dean grins, enjoying the slight pink that stains the sweep of Castiel’s cheekbones.

 

***

 

An hour or so later, he and Cas have swapped stories about their brothers, about their jobs (Castiel is a librarian at an Ivy League college - close enough) and Dean’s munched his way through a couple of corned beef and cheese sandwiches, and almost finished a luke-warm can of beer. 

“Where are we doing this then?” Dean asks, draining the remnants of the tasteless beer. He balls up the cellophane that had been used to wrap the sandwiches, tosses it into the cupholder in the console. “It’s gonna get dark soon and you don’t wanna be digging up a prickly fucker in the pitch black.”

“Good point,” Castiel murmurs and slows, bringing the car to a stop on the wide shoulder.

“Better take us a bit further back. We don’t wanna park this close to the road. Not if you want me to help you heist some cactus once we get done with your husband.”

Castiel glances at him uneasily, and for a split second, Dean almost chickens out. Almost tells Cas not to bother; the words are on the tip of his tongue, but that could look weird and fuck, Dean needs a goddamn car, not just a ride.

The car bumps forward, weaving around large balls of cactus, crashing through undergrowth. It finally stops behind a cluster of rocks.

“Do you think that we can be seen from the road?” Castiel asks, tiny tremor in his voice. Dean wants to reassure him, but anything that he could say would be a lie.

When they open the car doors, heat blasts in. Dean grabs the shovel from the back. “You wanna get the cactus first?”

If his hands are shaking slightly, he’ll deny it to his dying day.

“Sure.” 

They leave the car behind, walking side by side, Castiel glancing about. Most likely looking for a prime cactus or somewhere to dump his dead husband. Dean doesn't ask where Castiel's ex is - most likely didn't bother to get an urn if he's going to all this trouble to disrespect the poor fucker; probably in a baggy in his pocket or something.

“What about this one?” Dean asks, wanting to hurry this along. 

“Too big. I want a smaller one.”

“It’ll fit in the trunk.” Dean offers. 

“Nah.” Castiel says. “It’s gotta be perfect.” 

Dean shrugs. Maybe Castiel’s husband cheated on him because he’s crazy. Otherwise, the dude is too good to be true. He has to be fucked in the head somehow. Dean’ll be doing him a favor by putting him out of his misery.

Yeah. Like a mercy kill or some shit.

They walk further. Soon, the car is out of sight.

“How about this one?” Dean asks, pointing. “It’s kinda little.”

“Yes. This one is great.”

Castiel kneels down beside it and Dean can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage, the adrenaline coursing through his veins, overpowering, but there’s a bittersweet edge to it this time. Castiel’s shirt is dark blue against his perspiring back, and a slight breeze ruffles through the dark strands of his hair.

This is the perfect way to remember the beautiful librarian, Dean thinks as he brings the shovel down on Castiel’s head.

Dean’s original plan had been to kill and bury him, but after the initial strike, he can’t bring himself to keep on going, to ruin that handsome face. And even if Castiel is still breathing, there’s no way that he’ll survive nightfall out here. He’ll be dead by morning.

As for the burying? Well, it’s getting dark and if Dean has a hope in hell of finding the car, he’ll need to do so before the sun finally dips below the horizon.

Nothing at all to do with the fact that there’s a part of him that wants to give Castiel a fighting chance.

 

***

 

As he drives through scrubland in the remarkably smooth-riding Malibu (yeah, yeah, he said no  _ self-respecting  _ serial killer would drive a Chevvy sedan; he has absolutely  _ zero _ self respect), Dean tries not to think about Castiel. It’s hard, because he’s in the man’s car and everything about the stupid vehicle is so  _ Cas _ that Dean very nearly feels bad about what he did. He wishes that it could have ended differently, but as Dean’s dad always used to say, he may as well wish in one hand and shit in the other for all the good that it will do. 

Usually, Dean finds that it’s much nicer to have the car to himself, but this time he shifts in the driver’s seat, fingertips tapping restlessly on the steering wheel. He misses the easy back and forth that he and Castiel had. Dean’s not found many people in his life that he’s been able to connect with and he’d liked the feeling. He’s beginning to understand why people go in for all that soulmate profound bond shit.

But.

What’s done is done. 

No amount of feeling feelings is gonna bring the dude back.

Still, besides Dean’s emo-ness at having to ditch Cas, there’s also a weird snag of a thought in the back of his mind. Something that he can’t quite remember that he’s forgotten.

It’s only about ten minutes before the car begins to slow, moving sluggishly. Dean pulls off the road and gets out, grumbling. 

“Fuck.” He mutters, seeing the flat rear tire. He leans against the side of the car and groans. Darkness is closing in and already the temperature is dropping.

Again, he tries not to think of Cas.

In the distance he hears the faint sound of a motor. He squints down the road. It’s a car, but he can’t yet see the make or model.

For a moment, he considers thumbing a ride. But he’s got a perfectly good car. It might look weird.

He closes his eyes and waits for the car to pass.

It doesn’t pass. The engine rumbles closer before cutting out. Ping of cooling metal.

Dean opens his eyes. 

Double fuck. 

“Evening.” The stranger calls out, taking off his peaked cap and tucking it under his armpit.

“Howdy, Officer.” Dean says, heart in his throat. This is so far from ideal that it’s not even grazing ‘the-kind-of-story-you-tell-in-ten-years-when-it’s-become-funny’ funny.

“You got a spare?”

Shit. How the fuck is Dean supposed to know. “I think so.”

The officer squints at him, right cheek bulging a little as he chews on some gum. “What do you mean, you think so? You either have a spare or you don’t.” He throws his cap through the open window of his cruiser and starts towards Dean.

Dean scrambles. “What I meant was, I’m not sure if it’s any good. It’s been a while since I’ve had any use for it.”

He’s usually a better liar, but there’s nothing _ usual  _ about today.

“Fair enough,” The officer says, apparently not quite believing Dean. Which is understandable. “I’ll stick around ‘til we find out. This is rough country. A person can die out here. If the spare’s no good, I’ll radio for a tow.”

“Okay, thanks.” Dean opens the door and pulls the keys from the ignition.

Realistically, he’s not sure why he’s so nervous. There’s no reasons in the world for the cop to suspect a thing; Dean’s not even wanted in this state.

“Did you go off the road back a ways?”

Dean fumbles the keys and they fall to the ground. “Er, no. Why?”

The officer bends low to pick them up and Dean catches sight of his badge and the name sewn onto his uniform. Singer. “Flats around here, they’re usually caused by cactus spines. They’re murder.”

Dean nearly chokes on his own tongue. Singer hands the keys back to Dean and together they walk to the rear of the car. 

The octagonal key doesn’t fit the trunk.

“I don’t know why those idjits in design don’t just make one key that’ll fit the door and the trunk both.”

Dean flashes a weak smile. “What a nuisance, huh.” Why the fuck is he so nervous? 

The round key fits. The trunk pops open.

They’re greeted with a tarp, which Officer Singer promptly tugs off onto the ground.

Triple fuck.

Officer Singer levels his pistol at Dean.

“Raise your hands and get on your goddamn knees.”

Dean barely registers the gun or the command; he’s too busy staring at the bullet-ridden body of a middle-aged man who apparently cheated on the wrong librarian.

 


End file.
